


Rise and Fall

by Jameson9101322



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action, Adventure, Blood and Injury, Fire, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Rescue Missions, Stabbing, Swords, light shipping but can be read as friends, post tv addition canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 22:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameson9101322/pseuds/Jameson9101322
Summary: After successfully pulling a bait and switch on Heaven and Hell, Crowley and Aziraphale think they are in a peaceful lull, but Heaven has not stopped thinking about their.... peculiarities. When Michael and the archangels kidnap Crowley from the street it is up to Aziraphale to save him before it's too late. And then Crowley to save Aziraphale. And perhaps the other way around again. With two different kingdoms gunning for their "immunities" how can the ineffable angel and demon survive?





	1. Rise

It happened in a literal flash. One moment Crowley was on his way back from the shops, and the next he was planting a foot on pristine, polished, featureless white marble without so much as a change in wind.

Being whisked to Hell was a bitch and a half. There was nothing like minding your own business and landing hard in a waiting room underground, but being whisked to Heaven felt like taking an ipecac not just from the disorientation but the acrid bleachiness of the place – and he smelled it a hundred times worse with his own nose than he had using Aziraphale’s. A hand uncurled from the back of his black jacket and shoved him forward. The demon staggered, using one leg for balance. A voice followed the shove. “You really are a sorry sight, aren’t you?”

Crowley turned a full circle before noticing the speaker. Sandalphon smiled wide enough to reveal his unique mouth decoration. “A disgusting stain on this perfect tableau. Exquisite how your kind have rotted while away from the divine sight.”

Uriel and Michael stood on either side of Sandalphon with their arms crossed. Crowley’s stomach clenched. The three archangels must have been following him, what a stupid thing to overlook. Crowley dug his hands in his pockets and lolled his head to appear aloof. “I’ll have you know the divine is well informed on the state of my decay.”

“I’m sure.” Michael lilted. “Considering your angelic company now a days.”

Crowley stiffened to maintain his calm veneer. “Why? You nab him too?”

“No” Uriel said. “Just you.”

“Why?”

“Because we wanted to speak to you alone,” Michael said.

“Speak?” Crowley coughed a laugh. These angels didn’t care about speaking when Aziraphale was the one being judged. “Really?”

Michael’s heels clacked as she stepped forward. “I know you are immune to holy water.”

“Demons cannot be immune to holy water,” Uriel noted. “It is impossible.”

“Impossible,” Michael agreed. “Unless you are no longer a demon.”

“Oh I assure you, I am.” Crowley lowered his glasses for a good leer with slitted pupils. Michael flinched. Crowley smiled.

“You cannot be a demon and be immune to holy water,” Uriel said again. “Either you are one or the other. There is no in between.”

“How do you explain your angel immune to hellfire then?” Crowley asked with a self-satisfied hiss.

Sandalphon snorted. “The two of them share everything, don’t they?”

“Disgusting,” Uriel agreed.

“Jealous?” Crowley asked. “Your old friend leave your clique and now you’re salty? Come on.”

“Quiet.” Michael snapped.

“What a joke. It smells like piss up here, can I go?”

“Bring out your wings!” Michael commanded.

Crowley frowned. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Show them,” she said. “Prove to me you have not risen.”

"Ah," Crowley said, slowly. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

A sword appeared in Michael’s hand. It didn’t flame like Aziraphale’s had but still glowed with a faint inner light. It’s blade was transparent and rippling as it tapered to a point. The visual impression of water sharp enough to slice atoms. “Bring them out.”

“So you can cut them off? Nah I don’t think so.” The ambient holiness of the space was chafing him, now. It burned, but wasn’t as strong as sacred ground on Earth. Interesting. Heaven’s offices harmed him less than a Catholic grave yard. “How’s about this? You open a window and I’ll show ‘em as I fly as far away from this wacky nonsense as possible? Sound like a deal to you?”

“PROVE YOU HAVEN’T RISEN!” She flashed the blade with a thrust that brought it dangerously close. Crowley steeled against the show of force and let the wind off the swipe hit his face with as small a flinch as possible. 

Posturing was angelic for sure, but impotent rage was more a demon thing. Crowley’s lip curled into a smile. “Are you sure you haven’t fallen?”

Michael blanched. “What?”

“I saw you in Hell.” Crowley wished it was true. Aziraphale’s account alone was enough to make him snort at odd hours. “You looked awfully at home down there. Perhaps you’re on the way down as I’m on the way up.”

A tremble shook through her, although whether it was rage or fear was unclear. She thrust again. “One more word and I’ll cut out your tongue!”

“You are welcome to try, but it’s longer than you think.”

“Crowley!?” Aziraphale broke panting upon the scene. He’d run up from some glowing void below, no telling how far it was from the street. Their eyes met in the gap between Uriel and Sandalphon’s shoulders. Aziraphale was almost manic, blue eyes twitching as if fueled by adrenaline alone. “Crowley!”

Crowley tossed back his head. “I’s cool, angel. Just got a little kidnapped.”

“A little –” He spotted Michael with the sword. “Good lord.”

“Keep your mouth shut,” Sandalphon said to the angel. “This is for your own good.”

“MY good?”

“You’re an angel who’s immune to hellfire.” Uriel said, plainly. “Bosses see that as an asset.”

“All that messy business with the traitoring has been overlooked,” Sandalphon’s mouthpiece reappered. “You’re moving up the ranks as soon as we get you right again.”

“Get me – ” Aziraphale huffed and flustered at the mere idea, but indignation didn’t erase his panic. His eyes snapped from the angels, to Crowley, to the sword, and back. Crowley used the diversion to swagger a step out of range, but Michael met him with a lightning-fast flick of her weapon. Aziraphale balled his fists and planted himself firmly. “Let him go.”

Uriel blinked slowly. “No.”

Aziraphale brought his fists up to and old-fashioned boxing pose. “I’ll fight you for him.”

“Hah!” Sandalphon barked loud enough to fill the room. He reached toward the angel with a hand like a tiger claw. Aziraphale seized up, fists no longer tight and elbows pinned to his sides. Sandalphon dragged his fingers through the air and with a matching swipe, Aziraphale was tossed overhead and onto the tiling where he skidded to a stop on Crowley’s side of the angelic posse. 

“You idiot!” Michael snapped. “That was right past my ear.”

Crowley scrambled back from her extended blade to meet him, but Aziraphale was already up, rubbing his elbow with one hand. Crowley whispered over his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Mortified.” Aziraphale replied. “And you?”

“Annoyed.” 

“Did they hurt you?”

“How did you find me?”

“I saw it happen. Right out the front window,” he said. “Flash in, flash out. It was awful.”

“Aziraphale!” Michael advanced on them, sword in hand. Crowley put the angel behind him, but Aziraphale squirmed away, preventing the demon from playing the shield. Michael’s blade sliced a line between them. “You’ve been granted mercy from the Almighty, but you’re being tainted by this creature. We brought him here to kill him.”

“You will do no such thing!” Aziraphale challenged.

“See how it has him.” Sandalphon muttered to Uriel.

Uriel blinked half-speed and addressed Aziraphale again. “You are a small-minded little pigeon incapable of resisting the slightest sin, but who can really blame you. You weren’t built with free will.”

“Nah, you just can’t imagine what free will actually looks like.” Crowley scoffed. “Heaven forbid you actually choose something, like letting a person live their own bloody life.” 

“You don’t have to watch if you don’t want, Aziraphale,” Sandalphon snickered. “It’ll only hurt for a moment. Like pulling a tooth. Believe you me, you’ll feel better without him.”

“Like Hell I will,” Aziraphale reached blindly and took Crowley by the wrist. “If you want me back so badly this is not the way to do it. You won’t find me a compliant person.”

The tooth decoration glittered. “Oh I think I can get you compliant enough.”

“What you do with our broken angel is your business,” Michael said. “I have claim on the demon.” 

Crowley studied her with a knot in his throat and the sinking feeling she wanted to dissect him. Aziraphale’s hand pinched tighter at his arm as Michael and Sandalphon advanced, but Uriel was faster. The archangel raised their hand as they stepped around the others. “Enough! Angels do not defect. Demons cannot be immune to holy water.”

The hand came down and Crowley saw the glint of a glass vial concealed in the fist. An arch of glistening liquid erupted toward him – ten times the amount that would fit in such a small container. Crowley was on his off-foot, his right hand trapped in Aziraphale’s left. Nowhere to go. No time to plan. He raised his free arm on reflex, but knew it wouldn’t help. A single drop of the liquid would sear straight through him, but the amount currently flying would erase him from existence.

Crowley was yanked to one side in a rustle of white. Before he could form a thought he was on one knee, shrouded in wings with his forehead pressed deep into Aziraphale’s chest. The flung water pattered against the tent of white feathers like drops on a windshield.

Aziraphale released his grip and held the demon at arm’s length, his wide anxious eyes searching for damage or pain. Crowley’s mind returned to a more normal functioning speed. He was fine. He was actually fine. Boy that was close.

“I knew it.” Uriel said. “Demons are not immune.”

“But angels can defect!” Michael cried.

There was a wet thud as air left Azriaphale’s lungs. His hands clamped Crowley’s shoulders, a clear rippling blade protruding inches from the center of his chest. Crowley stared at it, hardly believing it was there. He looked back to Aziraphale, but the eyes he knew to betray every thought were stuck wide and stone still.

“Michael!” Sandalphon groaned.

“You’ll get him in spirit!” Michael said. 

The blade clocked up at an angle, then pulled out with a swipe. Aziraphale’s strength left with the sword and he collapsed onto Crowley in a crumple of limbs and feathers.

Crowley’s arms wound up between body and wing, heart pounding, not breathing. The burn of the white world seeped into his core as he sank beneath the angel’s dead weight. “No, no...” Crowley held tight, replaying the scene in his head. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Aziraphale drew his first breath in a full second. His right knee slid to take pressure off the demon’s chest but couldn’t hold him up for long. The angel shifted to one side intent on finding the floor but Crowley refused to let him go.

“No you don’t.” Crowley’s whisper was more like a growl. “Don’t you dare.”

“I can’t breathe…” Aziraphale muttered. “You should run.”

“No.”

“You must.” He nearly sobbed amid gasps. “They'll kill you.”

“They'll kill you.”

“Get ‘em apart,” Uriel grunted. “It’s sickening to watch.”

“I won’t let you go.” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s hair as he strengthened his grip. “But hold on tight anyway.”

He’d left Heaven twice before. The second time he took the stairs, but the first time… the first time he was dropped like a lead-lined bad habit. No demon had ever risen back to grace and no angel had ever fallen twice in one lifetime. How had it happened? He asked questions? He lost faith in his God. 

Well if God was going to take Aziraphale away from him, he was owed another fall.

Crowley put all his strength in his arms and let go of everything else. The ground opened like torn silk and Crowley sank into it backward, dragging the angel and his unfurled wings to the abyss. The burn of Heaven vanished in a rush of cold air. They rocketed head-first, faster than terminal velocity, piercing countless veils on their way to the depths. Aziraphale’s wings dragged back, swept by the wind and slowing their fall infinitesimally at best. He was too weak to unfurl them, but still managed to hug Crowley around the shoulders. Crowley rubbed a thumb into his back, knowing what was in store. They hit the concrete floor of Hell’s basement like a cannonball. 

Impact broke Crowley’s grip and sent the two sprawling about a small, filthy room. Rusty filing cabinets and records boxes were forced into the walls. Leaves of stained paper fluttered down as powdered sulfur billowed up in colorless clouds to fill Crowley’s nose and lungs. It brought a different kind of burning than he felt in Heaven. Heaven hated him, but he hated Hell with every thread of his sinew, and Hell hated him, too. There wasn’t going to be any convenient self-serving forgiveness from the demons. If they caught him, the first thing they’d do was tear him apart.

“Unggg...” 

Crowley’s guts cinched to a rock in his chest. “Aziraphale!”

Feathers were everywhere; stuck in the piles of filth, hanging from the ceiling fan, caught in the overturned waste-basket. Both the angel’s unfurled wings were broken. One was crumpled beneath him, colored by blood pooling from the wound in his back. Crowley glanced down at his own chest where more red was stained – evidence of a mortal body losing what it needed to survive.

Voices shouted in the hall. The locals must have overheard their grand entrance. Crowley coiled like a spring and flung himself on the room’s only door. It opened in. There was a lock. Crowley bolted it with a shaking hand and pulled one of the few upright filing cabinets across it’s path. The door handle jostled a moment and stilled. Crowley released a staggered breath.

“Crowley?”

“Yes!” Crowley shambled back into the room, stepping over crumpled cabinets and feathers on his way around the perimeter to reach Aziraphale’s eye line. The angel was dazed, eyes unfocused, face ashen like the colorless vault around them. Crowley tried not to touch any actual wing as he bent down. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Aziraphale’s eyes trained on him with some effort. Every muscle in his face was tight. “We… fell.”

“Yeah, yeah we did.”

“I…?” He lost focus again, drifting until he spotted his own extended wing and pointed. “Still white!”

Crowley cracked a smile. “Yeah, still white.”

Aziraphale’s eyelids dropped closed. “Thank God.”

The door jostled again. Crowley tensed, daring it to move. Aziraphale didn’t appear to notice.

“It feels awful down here,” he said between shallow breaths. “It hurts...”

“Hush.”

“...all over.” His head rested against the concrete where cracks spider-webbed halo-like beneath him. 

“Can you heal yourself down here?”

“Mmm?”

“Heal yourself,” Crowley pressed. “Do a miracle.”

He shook his head ‘no.’

“You have to!”

The outside jostle became a banging, then the rhythmic thump of a battering ram. Crowley plumbed his own abilities for something to do. Healing wasn’t his strong suit, and God’s powers were weak in Hell – by definition, it was a place separate from Her – and Lucifer wasn’t going loan him any strength after doomsday. The door buckled at the lock until the bolt popped from its housing. It ricocheted off a filing cabinet and clattered to the floor.

Crowley lowered his voice. “Listen, at least close your wings. You’re a dead give away if you don’t.”

He regretted his choice of words when Aziraphale didn’t answer. The dark blotch at his heart was slowly consuming his waistcoat as it rose and fell. Breaths came slower and slower. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley pressed his palm against the angel’s limp hand. Aziraphale flinched, furrowed his brow and squeezed Crowley’s fingers. The battered wings vanished back into his soul.

“Who’s in there?” A demon shouted through the forced gap the door. “Show yourself!”

“I’m sorry I have to do this.” Crowley pried his hand from Aziraphale’s grip. “Wait for me. I’ll come find you.”

The angel struggled to look up, but the last of whatever strength he had was running out. The clanging resumed and the door peeled off its top hinge. Crowley drew a sulfuric breath and dredged power from within him. Around the room scattered feathers caught fire, curling and smoking as they releasing their residual holiness from within. 

The pounding doubled its effort. Crowley willed the scraps of the miraculous together, focusing them down into one point – one thought that he believed with all of his heart. He held it close, passed it through his blackened soul and flung it upward toward the distant realms of humanity. 

The door gave way, spilling demons into the record room. Crowley dropped to his knees, Aziraphale having vanished completely from Hell.


	2. Fall

Sunlight felt like the sweetest thing in the universe compared to where he’d just been. Almost sweet enough to feel good when everything else in Aziraphale’s body felt oh so very bad. He was on his back in a park, under a tree with a swing in the shade of a building. It might have been a dream, if not for the sunlight. That was absolutely real and absolutely lovely.

A child’s voice echoed from somewhere vague and cloudy. Aziraphale couldn’t track their movement, and hadn’t the strength to try. A roughly child-shaped shadow blocked the sunlight hitting his closed eyelids. 

“Mummy, mummy! There’s a dead body over here!”

That was him. The dead body.

A woman’s voice spoke. She had a London accent. “Honey, I’m sure it’s not – aaaahhhh! Don’t touch it!”

‘Do something,’ the phantom of his consciousness nagged. ‘Prove you’re not dead you limp, landed fish.’

There was no air in him to speak with, or strength open his eyes. Everything he had was spent on breathing, which was getting harder and harder to do. His chest was heavy and stiff, like he was being crushed from inside. Even his heart was broken, full of crumpled wings and Crowley. Poor Crowley left down there in Hell where he was hated and feared and they melted each other for literally no reason. Aziraphale could still feel the press of the demon’s shaking hand against his palm despite a creeping numbness making its way up his limbs. The lack of feeling was frightening if it was going to take that tactile memory from him. He willed himself to hold on to it, clinging hard enough to curl his fingers into a ball.

“He’s still alive. Honey, go get my phone!”

‘Not dead,’ he thought with some relief. The numbness was in his chest now, which was a nice change. Not being painful was so much better than the alternative. Maybe he could sink in it a little, and the gaping hole in his body would dull it’s burn, and the wings in his heart would stop throbbing, and he’d stop being sad.

When he woke again it was to light, commotion, and noise. 

“Blood pressure rising. Hanging more fluids.”

“Full O-neg don’t water it down.”

“I’ve got the thoracic surgeon on the line, Doctor, do you want him?”

“Wait, I see movement.”

An antiseptic smell filled Aziraphale’s nose as he blinked into the blinding overhead light. Was he back in Heaven? Had he ever left? Memory clawed sluggishly from the fog in his mind. Heaven first, then Hell, then here. Horrific beeps and alarms were going off somewhere above and behind him as people scurried in circles around the bed where he lay.

Hospital then. How long ago was that park? He tried to raise his head but the chest pain was back with a vengeance. At least the air was fitting better than it had, and overall compared to dying in Hell it was an improvement.

Something the rest of Heaven, or at the very least those who never inhabited an actual physical body would never understand was the human need for breath and the innate panic of not being able to get it. Aziraphale’s logical mind knew of course that it was a chemical reaction and death, while still unpleasant would be more inconvenient than anything else. Except for Sandalphon waiting for him. He didn’t want to think about what that could mean. 

The doctor bent uncomfortably close to Aziraphale’s face. “Sir? Are you with us?”

Forcing air out to speak with hurt like a cheese grater in his chest. “Pardon?”

“You’ve been stabbed,” the doctor said. “You’ve endured tremendous blood loss and a punctured lung. There’s a chest tube in, don’t be alarmed. It’s taking pressure off your heart.”

“There’s what?”

“Can you tell us your name?” The doctor asked.

Pain stabbed deep into Aziraphale's ribs as he raised his right arm. It looked like one of Crowley’s horror movies. Tubes and wires draped everywhere. Aziraphale hated those movies, they were too cruel. Life was already cruel enough. At least he could raise his arm high enough to be appalled by the sight.

“Leave that be,” the doctor insisted. “Your name?”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and everyone in the room froze mid-motion. A second snap and every wire, tube, puncture, wound, and chemical imbalance assaulting his person was perfectly righted, leaving the angel as fully himself as he could manage to be in the moment. He breathed deeply in and out with no pressure or pain. What a relief. 

“So sorry, good fellow.” Aziraphale inched past the doctor’s face and slid carefully to the cold tile. “You did a bang-up job, really, but I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush.” 

Bare feet felt foreign after centuries of modern clothing. What had he been wearing before? His brown coat and velvet waistcoat? They’d be ruined now, what with all the stabbing and the blood – not to mention the sulfur, that both stained AND smelled. Wait, no! He was at home when Crowley was abducted, that meant his knit pullover. Thank God! It was pilling up something awful. Talk about small miracles in a truly awful situation. 

With a third snap and he was back in velvet, tartan, and leather with his favorite camel coat pulling snugly at his back. 

“There now, everything right again.” He looked about the emergency room treatment bay where the half-dozen nurses and assistants were still trying to bring him back to life. What darlings. So good at their jobs, and considering the amount of blood staining them and everything else it must have been a real battle. The tube that was in his chest drained into a literal bag of it on the floor.

So much of his blood. Hard to look at. A little nauseating, in fact. He’d been so close to losing his earthly presence and returning back to Heaven. No rebellion, no bookshop, no Crowley – who was priority now that Aziraphale could do something about him – but a person of character never left a mess. Aziraphale cleared his throat and spoke to the cluster of frozen people. “Well done, everyone! Extremely good ah… drill! We were all very impressed and you can now continue your difficult day’s work knowing you are the best humanity has to offer.” 

He snapped twice more, once to clean up and the second to awaken. The staff roused, blinking, to find their room without an emergency and their patient speed-walking conspicuously up the hall. The emergency room was full of activity with everything from the common cold to collision victims occupying the seats. A familiar voice rose above the bustle – the woman who found him. She stood with her daughter at the front desk speaking to the police.

This was going to require a little cleverness. 

Aziraphale smiled as he stepped into their midst. “Excuse me.”

“Ahh!” The woman shrieked.

The little girl pointed up at him in delight. “The dead body!”

“Ah, not quite,” Aziraphale said. “But thank you for being so very observant.”

“You-you were dying!” The woman stammered. “I just saw you!”

Telling the truth was the best thing. It was right and good, but it was complicated and circumstances varied. “That was my brother,” Aziraphale said. “We’re twins. I heard he was stabbed?”

“Mugged,” the police officer they were speaking to said. “In Bader Park.”

“Bader Park, you say?” It was a small park near a church yard. That made sense, yes.

“Excuse me,” the officer said. “Can you tell us a bit about the victim? Name? Occupation?”

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m afraid there is no time.” Aziraphale turned back to the mother and child. “Thank you both so much for helping my brother. The doctors tell me he is doing just fine. You saved his life today, and that is not an exaggeration. I am and will be eternally grateful.”

The woman’s discomfort evaporated into a contented smile. “That’s wonderful news. I was worried.”

“No worry needed.” He made a point to look the little girl square in the eye. “You weren’t afraid, were you?”

She smiled. “It was cool!”

“I had a feeling it was.” He nodded to the waiting officers and bolted.

The one taking notes faltered. “Hey wait! Come back!”

Taxis lined the hospital driveway, their drivers reading newspapers or posts on their phones. One of the cabs must have noted Aziraphale’s hurry from a distance. It swung out of it’s spot before he could raise the customary flag. 

The driver rolled down his window. “Where to, sir?”

“Bader Park, please,” he said. “And spare the brake.”

Driving through London was never more inconvenient than when one’s presence was immediately necessary. Despite everything, Aziraphale had grown somewhat used to Crowley’s driving. What he wouldn’t give to do ninety on a public road without consequence. Perhaps there was a closer entrance to Hell. No, Crowley wasn’t strong enough to send a wounded angel very far. Plus Hell, while cramped, was infinitely huge. Knowledge of Heaven’s dealings reunited them the first time, but Aziraphale had no idea what the maps of Hell looked like and very much doubted anyone there was going to give him directions.

The cab fell into a jam at a junction. Aziraphale shifted in the back seat. Every moment he spent sitting was an opportunity for Crowley to be maimed or discorporated or burned or melted or who could say what else, and every moment not thinking of those awful things was spent doubting his shaky plan. An angel entering Hell without sword or shield with no idea where he was going... there had to be a better option. 

The cab inched around a corner and sidled up next to a Catholic bookstore.

“Ooh!” The angel tapped the back of the passenger seat. “I’ll be right back!”

The driver spun in his seat as the angel leaped free. “Hey!”

“Keep the meter running!”

On a normal day, Aziraphale had little use for modern bookshops. He loved literacy surely, but they lacked the character an antique shop like his contained. Still, Catholic bookstores came with an additional appeal, not because they carried anything Aziraphale particularly wanted, but because they were occasionally blessed by their ordained clientele. The touch of holiness managed to calm his nerves a tiny bit as a digitally distorted ‘ping’ rang overhead. 

The middle-aged woman behind the counter looked up from an Amish romance novel with the price sticker still on it. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m looking for...” A rack marked ‘last-minute buys’ stood beside her on the counter. The middle row was full of plastic squeeze bottles with silver crosses on the front. “That.”

“Five pounds.” 

He pulled ten from his empty pocket and stuffed two of the bottles in inside. “Thank you.”

“Receipt?”

“No need.”

The woman returned to her book. “Have a blessed day.”

It was so simple, really. Amazing the other side didn’t know about these things. The cab was stopped at the corner when Aziraphale slipped back in. “Thank you for your patience.”

“What was that about?”

“Nothing.” He stiffened. “Errands.”

“In a church store?”

Aziraphale tightened his bow tie. “The park, please?”

They made it to Bader park without further incident. Even the traffic lights let them through. It was almost like magic. The park itself was blocked by a police vehicle, although no actual officers were visible. Yellow tape marked a wide square around the tree with the swing. Aziraphale imagined the scene that preceded it; a well-dressed man in pale colors covered in blood mere feet from where children played. He was retroactively mortified. 

The cab pulled into the drive of the church next door. “What you think happened here?”

“Haven’t the faintest.”

“Cash or charge, sir?”

“Keep it running.”

“Are you serious?”

“I tip tremendously well.”

The church had a graveyard dating back centuries, but being on-site meant the land was holy ground. What posterity did not know was that the adjoining park was a pauper’s field back when the church was freshly built. Unconsecrated, full of unclaimed strangers and unfortunate pagans – and easy access to Hell for one who knew where to go. Angels by nature did not. They didn’t read negative energy the way that demons could, which was balanced by the demon’s lack of positive reading in human emotion. If only Crowley were human. Human love had a glow and Crowley was the only one in Hell able to love anything with fervor – but even without a beacon Aziraphale now knew what Hell felt like. 

It was bad enough when he was Crowley. The place was heavy and dark, the walls insulted you as you walked, and the air smelled like sick and mold. But Crowley had frequented its musk for thousands of years and to an extent his nose was more familiar with it. Being there himself was different. It probably didn’t help that Aziraphale was in such physical pain at the time, but merely existing in it robbed him of guidance and presence and truth and especially love. That was what it meant to fall from grace. To be without love.

The road between the park and church had hints of holiness buried six feet beneath. Common saints with their earthly treasures forgotten by time. They masked the darkness laying shallow beyond them, beneath the walkers and joggers and picnickers that passed above it unknowing. Evil stained the ground on a spiritual level, grasping at the intersections of lay lines and ghostly eddies. Nausea rose as Aziraphale followed them away from the paths and pavement to a growth of trees and a patch of park left to go wild. This was a level of evil anyone would notice. ‘Spooky’ some called it. A portent of worse to come. 

He held his breath as he crossed into the grove, wading through thorns and brambles toward the heart of the darkness. Mist settled, bringing the sickening sweetness of burnt flesh. Aziraphale swallowed hard and crunched dead leaves to the top of a small rise where he could see down into the chilly depths of a desecrated grave. 

Who once lay there, the angel didn’t know, but their pain and sorrow were palpable. Perhaps it was a witch. Or a suicide. Someone who died in tears and whose remains were later forcefully and disrespectfully removed. Injustice atop an injustice… acts that chafed the veil thin.

Heaven told Aziraphale long ago that no angel could willingly enter Hell without being tainted – that crossing the barrier was a choice that changed you forever. This would be his third time in, although the first of his own accord. To say he wasn’t frightened was folly, but Crowley was down there. Hurting. If Aziraphale were to be damned, then damn him twice for hesitating even one moment longer. He took two steps forward and staggered in the loam. The earth wriggled and sucked him down. 

Aziraphale sank from the light of grace and was deposited onto a staircase. His heart seized as all hope was squeezed out like a sponge. The air was thick and oily with hate harvested from it’s ten thousand denizens. So sad. So lonely. To merely exist within it meant to despair. 

A demon crossed the hall at the bottom of the steps, snapping Aziraphale’s nerves like a bowstring. He pressed himself to the wall and waited for further movement. Perhaps even Crowley, swaggering to the steps having talked his way out of trouble. That was a very Crowley thing to have happen, but too much to hope. Aziraphale inched to the foot, aware of how starkly his presence stood out against the damp, colorless walls and piles of discarded filth. White hair, clean clothes... like a beacon in bad weather.

The staircase opened onto something of a customs office where demons stood in crowded lines in front of ticket-checking windows. With fetid skin and glassy eyes, they shuffled arrhythmically into Hell’s labyrinth. All it would take was one demon raising their head for him to be captured. Aziraphale slipped from the stairwell and inched low and careful along the wall. The place was crusty like ballooning battery acid. His hands stung as he touched it. He wished he was home. 

What happened to Heaven and Hell leaving them alone? Why was it always so difficult when he and Crowley never hurt anyone, at least not enough that it couldn’t be fixed. They just wanted to be together in good and comfortable places where humans could be human and time could evolve. To appreciate creation the way it was meant to be done. That’s how God made it in the beginning. Good. And it kept good as best it could, why did no one see that? Instead there was Hell and hellish Heaven where no one was welcome. Well, they could all come to Earth and learn a thing or two about hospitality. Maybe do a wine tasting. See a show. Feel an emotion other than misery or pride. Actually love something.

Voices echoed somewhere on the far end of the darkened hallway. Like light bulbs, the minds of the shuffling demons came back to life. There were murmurs, then chaos as the crowd tore past the checkpoints and into the flickering darkness behind. Even the ticket takers took wing. How very convenient. Too much so to be a coincidence when Crowley’s final words before sending him to the surface were “I’ll find you.” Aziraphale abandoned all pretense and broke into a run.

The demons snaked ahead of him through a maze of moldy halls and leaking ceilings. Aziraphale realized too late that he should have been marking a trail. He had no idea which of the thousand repetitive hallways he’d taken and had no idea how he was going to navigate them back to the surface. More demons fell into the pack behind him, bringing with them a change of candor and tone as half the mob became a pursuit. 

“Angel!” One shouted. “See it! Get it!”

Aziraphale forced himself not to look. It was better to think of thousands of imaginary monsters chasing him than look back into the eyes of one real one ready to kill. He had to find Crowley first, then he’d worry about fighting. The pack entered a large, low-ceilinged office filled with desks and garbage. Demons literally chained to office chairs hunched over piles of damp paperwork. One was fruitlessly washing the walls. At the end of the hall, unnoticed by the workers, three dozen demons massed on something at the top of a staircase. Aziraphale didn’t have to guess what they were scavenging. He reached for the weapons in his pocket but was taken from behind.

“Angel!” The hissing voice from before repeated in his ear. It tightened it’s bare arms around his neck, the pustular skin squelching against his jawbone like rotten fruit. Aziraphale would have gagged, but those reliable pings of breathless panic were back. He grasped one plastic bottle, popped off the hinged lid and drove the nozzle into the arresting arm with a firm squeeze. The creature leaped off his back, howling as the holy water chewed through its extended limb until it’s hand bent backward and fell clean off.

Aziraphale watched it splat with abject horror and raised the bottle like a gun. “Back off!”

The pursuing demons shrank away, staring with a mix of fear and interest. Those at the desks looked up from their forms with quizzical black eyes. Aziraphale flitted the business end of the bottle to different targets as he shuffled toward the larger commotion where demons hissed and clawed each other in a frenzy, desperate to get to the central prize. Aziraphale ducked a swiping claw as he waded into the thick of the fight, dodging bloated heads, misshapen limbs, animal affects, and open sores. Any creature that grabbed him was stabbed with the open bottle. The drops falling from the nozzle weren’t enough to melt anyone, but the reign of terror he wrought created a domino affect in which weakened demons were consumed by those climbing in behind them. Demons grabbed onto his coat and arms, attempting to pull him apart like a pile of drones defending a termite nest.

The center of the swarm held a rotating swell of frothing demons. Aziraphale grabbed one by the back of the coat and injected a full dose of water under its ribs. The monster writhed and flailed with an eruption of white light. This got the others’ attention. Aziraphale flashed the label of his weapon and they cowered, revealing Anthony J Crowley balled tight on the ground. 

Aziraphale capped the open bottle and sucked any remaining drops off his hand as he bundled the crumpled celestial up in both arms. Crowley uncoiled with a snap and twisted to face his new assailant. His clothes were ripped and his face and neck were covered in punctures and cuts. His wide yellow eyes met Aziraphale’s, full of pain and worry. “You...? What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you. Again.” Aziraphale returned his softest smile. “That’s twice today.”

“Oh shut up.” Crowley snorted, but there was a sob in his voice. He looped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and dragged his feet in attempt to stand. Aziraphale got him upright, shifting him into one arm as he reclaimed the bottle from his pocket. 

“Stay back,” Aziraphale darted the weapon left and right. “This stuff is potent. And it mists!”

The demons shifted around, maintaining the requested distance but not looking nearly as frightened as Aziraphale would have liked. He sensed them flanking him. A demon with a swollen left eye feigned a lunge. One on the opposite side pulled a knife. Aziraphale gulped. Holy water was a fantastic tool against strangers, but it was horrifically dangerous to poor Crowley. He didn’t want to risk blow back or transference or anything, really. If Crowley was burned on top of the rest of his injury Aziraphale would never forgive himself. The pause rekindled the note of panic he’d suppressed, and the demons were calling his bluff. 

Crowley tightened his grip. “Behind you!”

Aziraphale turned in time to see a fireball flying toward him. Crowley shoved the two of them apart, sending himself across a desk and Aziraphale stumbling into a pack of waiting attackers. One leaped on the angel’s weapon arm and bit into his wrist. Sharp teeth ripped his shirt cuff, stabbing the tendon beneath. 

“Ahh!” 

The bottle came free and was kicked through the forest of legs. Aziraphale retracted his hand, but was at the mercy of an increasing number of assailants. Crowley reacted to his cry, shouting profanity through the din. Aziraphale met his eye for a moment before he was masked by the crush of heat and body odor surrounding him.

Another fireball flew past, impacting the ceiling. Glass shattered. Sparks rained. The demon responsible appeared with a torch in his hand. The creature’s other arm was a smoking stump – evidence of Aziraphale’s first victim. The one-handed demon sneered as he swung the torch into the helpless angel's face. Aziraphale bent his head away, hellfire baking his cheek as it descended toward him. The other demons snickered as they forced him toward it. A wicked grin played on the torchbearer’s lips. He raised the torch for a final blow when he was hit in the head by a flying chair. 

The one-armed demon spun in rage and was met by Crowley’s left hook. The torch tumbled to a nearby desk where it caught the stacks of paperwork aflame. Orange light swelled in the grayness, spreading through paper, wood, and the demons themselves, the grease on their clothing and oil in their hair catching as easily as the rest. Crowley reached through the mob and grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels.

“I’m not losing you two times in the same BLESSED DAY!”

He ripped Aziraphale from the clawing arms and dragged him into the maze of samey hallways. Crowley’s fervor was impressive but failed quickly as his steps once again became short and uneven. Aziraphale popped his head under Crowley’s arm and took up his weight. “Allow me.”

“How are you here?” Crowley panted. “I sent you away.”

“And you did a fine job of it.”

“So why’d you come back?” He snapped. “It wasn’t easy sacrificing myself, you know. Not knowing if you were alive or dead. And now you come back down here and get torn up. How ungrateful can you be?”

“Crowley, they were eating you alive!”

“No, they were drinking me. It’s different.” He wilted. “Thought it would make them immune to holy water.”

Aziraphale shrugged under the demon’s arm and sucked his lips tight. “Guess they learned something about that.”

Crowley’s grimace cracked into a grin. “Yeah I guess they did.”

Aziraphale kept their pace brisk past the filing rooms and offices, pausing at intersections for Crowley to direct via lean. The confusing halls provided cover, but the smell of blood and ash was in the air and word was traveling fast. Firelight pursued them a short distance behind, accompanied by wails of pain and frustration. It felt like a miracle when the staircase finally came into sight. Aziraphale increased their speed past the ticket counters and shoved Crowley ahead of him onto the steps.

“You go first!” Crowley said.

“Now is not the time to be chivalrous.”

“I’m not leaving you behind!”

The darkened room swelled to orange and burned Aziraphale’s last nerve. He jabbed his wounded hand toward the earthen ceiling. “Get up the stairs!”

Crowley obeyed. The ground peeled back and let him rise to the surface. 

Aziraphale scrambled for his second water bottle, panting and terrified. He sprinkled a stream on the steps with a shaking hand. The barrier would buy them time, but not very much. His mind raced as he slipped into the earthen ceiling as well. Crowley dug him out as he emerged. Aziraphale held the open water at arm’s length until he’d regained the higher ground. “You might want to stand clear.”

“Clear from what?”

The angel drizzled the rest of the bottle over the open grave and raised his hands toward heaven. Hope and love in his heart, he opened his prayer. “With power invested in me as a principality of the heavenly host in the name of the Almighty I bless this ground to Her service and dedicate it from this moment to the glory of the divine.”

Music rustled in the leaves. Shafts of silvery sunlight scattered the fog. Coiled wickedness shriveled and released its deep grip as the temperature steadily rose and the soul of whoever once rested within the grave-site eased an otherworldly sigh. It vanished into the beyond, leaving peace and wonder in its wake. Far below the surface, an army of demons found the doorway wholly and irrevocably sealed.

Aziraphale exhaled, his whole frame deflating into limp mush. 

Crowley stepped up behind with a groan. “Damn me I need a drink.”

“You’ve been damned enough for the day.”

“Hmph.” The faint bit of sob Aziraphale had heard below still clung to the edge of Crowley voice. He slouched and sank onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, his long arms draping the angel’s neck and a supreme weariness seeping from his heart. Aziraphale pressed his temple to Crowley’s forehead and let him rest for a moment. What an afternoon the they’d both been through, finding and losing each other in the worst circumstances imaginable, yet now they were here, in a beautiful glen. How long would the peace would last this time, Aziraphale had no idea, but they were safe for now. That was what mattered. 

Three claw marks marred the space under Crowley’s left eye, some of the hundreds of bruises and abrasions he’d sustained while below. Healing wasn’t the demon’s strong suit, but it was Aziraphale’s favorite miracle. He kissed two fingers on his free hand and pressed them to the wound. The stripes knit together without so much as a scar. 

Crowley lifted his head as the healing spread from the initial touch down his neck to his torn hands and tight muscles. He straightened and thumbed his cheek with half a smile. “I owe you an apology, angel.”

“Oh?”

“I was so desperate not to lose you I forgot you could hold your own.” He gripped Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I suppose I should thank you for saving me. Twice.”

“I believe we’re fairly even.”

“How do you figure that?” 

“Well for start, you pulled me out of Heaven.” He counted in air. “Then you threw me out of Hell, and just now I believe you hit someone with a chair.”

“That’s three.”

“Well I also locked the door.”

“You did do that.” He grinned. “Where’d you get those little bottles anyway?”

“Bookstore.”

“You stopped at a bookstore while I was dying?”

“It was on the way!” Aziraphale pocketed the empty bottle and clapped Crowley on the back. “Let’s get home. I have a cab waiting.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

The two moved casually out of the grove and across the orderly pathways of the small park. Police tape rustled in the mild wind as the taxi idled nearby. Time marched obliviously onward and all around life and love glowed in the afternoon light.


	3. Epilogue

Crowley couldn’t remember being so bone tired in his entire life. He flopped onto the couch in Aziraphale’s office and hung one leg over the arm. What a nightmare the day had been. All he wanted was a coffee and instead he got kidnapped, robbed, bitten, cut, scratched, stomped on, run down, and finally forced to sit in rush hour traffic. 

Aziraphale was just as irritable. He shrugged off his coat and cracked his neck as he fit it snugly on its hook. “Lost another good sweater in this misadventure. You’d think the world would show us a little gratitude for what we’ve done for it.”

“What have we done?” Crowly flopped one of the throw pillows onto his own face. “Besides get ourselves in trouble.”

“We did nothing wrong.”

“Of course we didn’t. Since when does that have to do with anything?” 

Aziraphale fussed with something out in the shop. Chopin started playing. “Rest there. I’m making tea.”

“Spike it!” Crowley called. The angel didn’t answer back. 

Crowley pulled the pillow off, rolled back to his feet, and wandered out into the stacks. Angelic healing was a thing, for sure. His parts were all as they were meant to be, but it didn’t pierce deep enough to heal the anxiety he felt. Just walking to the shops, minding his own business and Michael had him before he even knew what was up. How was a celestial to guard against that? Never leave the house? And what was it for, even? To get Aziraphale back in their fold.

‘Show me your wings’ Michael had said. 

Crowley rubbed at a knot in his shoulder. No demon had ever risen back to grace, not since time itself was created. To think of such a thing happening to him…

But the whole assumption was based on trick he and Aziraphale had played on the two kingdoms, there was no logical grounding to it. They thought he was immune to holy water and of course he was not, no more than any other demon anyway. Heaven knew that now. What would stop them from dropping a tub of it out a window while he was walking beneath? Unless perhaps they were right and he was becoming an angel again. Stranger things had happened, that was for sure. 

“I mean….” He kneaded the knot a little harder. “It could never to check.” 

He closed his eyes and pulled his wings from their pocket in his soul. His feathered rustled against the shelves, absorbing the warmth of the shop with every quill. Crowley opened one eye and glanced left. Black as coal beneath a new moon. He was almost disappointed.

“Ahem.”

Aziraphale stood pouting in the kitchen doorway with a mug in each hand. He handed Crowley the one without milk and moved to close the blinds.

The bite of scotch and lemon hit Crowley’s nose before the cup even met his lips. “Hey, angel?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think...” He tugged a feather behind his back. “You know what Michael said. It’s possible for to return to Heaven once you fall.”

“Who would want to?” Aziraphale double locked the front door and paused a beat before turning. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

“No, no. It’s a valid point.” Crowley tucked the black feathers back into his heart. “Does this mean you won’t take them up on their offer?”

“And be ‘made right again’? I’d rather have stayed on Michael’s sword.” He stopped at the gramaphone and watched the record spin. “Sorry. Rude again.”

“You alright?”

He cupped his tea and watched Crowley through the steam. “They aren’t leaving us alone anymore.”

“No they aren’t.”

“We can’t repeat what happened today.”

Crowley’s eyes held on the angel as he sipped his tea. “Have a plan?”

“No,” he admitted. “You?”

“There’s always Alpha Centauri.”

Aziraphale smirked. “You know as well as I do they can find us there. It’s likely they’re watching every second of every day. Besides, I don’t want to leave. I like the earth. She’s been good to us. And I don’t want to abandon her.”

“I know you don’t,” Crowley stepped forward. “But we can’t pretend nothing’s changed.”

“No.” He sipped again. “Perhaps some kind of defense. To keep the bad people out.”

“You can bless the door.” 

“That would keep you out.”

“Your point?”

Aziraphale smirked again, but Crowley only grinned. 

“This is not a joke,” the angel said. “I won’t lose you again, not like I did today. Do you know how it felt standing in safety only to see you whisked away by divine forces? Or being safe on the surface with you stuck below? Being safe isn’t enough anymore. No side is good, not yours and not mine. They’re just sides. And that means we’re fighting two wars instead of one.”

“You’re wrong,” Crowley leaned against a shelf. “Our side is good.”

“Our side.” Aziraphale leaned beside him. “We are not much of an army.”

“But we’ve got fight.” Crowley said. “And we’ve got help.”

“Help?”

Crowley drew off his glasses and stared blankly across the shop. The ghosts of the day hovered close. “I couldn’t use magic in Hell.”

“What?”

“The place I should have the most power, I had to crawl out on my stomach like the snake that I am.”

“But you saved me.”

“I did. And you’re how I did it.” He raised an eyebrow. “I think we have an ally stronger than any one side.”

“I can’t believe this,” Aziraphale said. “You? Evoking the Almighty after everything we’ve done?”

“Ineffable isn’t it?”

A hint of a smile warmed Aziraphale’s face. “If what you’re proposing is true, it means we are not on our side…. we’re on Her side.”

“A fallen angel and a risen demon.” Crowley said. “Met in the middle.”

“And blessed ever since.” 

Crowley couldn’t help beaming. Perhaps angels could heal deeper than flesh after all. “You know I could install a hellfire lamp over the door. Antique and quite stylish. To keep the place safe.”

“And a holy water sprinkler system?”

“Just for insurance.”

“I’d be too afraid to do that.” 

“We know it works.”

“Yes, but it works a bit too well. I won’t endanger either of us to that degree.” He watched the steam, blue eyes flitting a little in thought. “Perhaps… that nice witch can help us set something up.”

“The book girl?”

“She fights for our side.” He sipped. “There are more powers than Heaven and Hell afoot, my dear fellow.”

“Indeed.” Crowley raised his mug. “To never doing today again.”

Aziraphale clinked. “Cheers.” 

The two settled into a lively and exciting new silence, full of strategy and possibility. Light and shadow. Wrong and right. Such things canceled each other out on earth. Theirs was a kingdom of plasticity and adaptation, and they after thousands of years of nurturing were a part of that system. No angel or demon were going to take what was theirs, and Heaven and Hell had no idea what to expect.


End file.
